Trying to Call Home
by PaintedOnWings
Summary: Post-Reichenback, a story about how John and those around him cope with the loss of Sherlock Holmes. Following John through his self discovery and how he struggles with his emotions. Spoilers from Season 2


Trying to Call Home 

The way he fell was so terribly graceful that it just added to all the pain that Dr. John Watson was feeling in his chest. His arms spread out as they moved as if he was trying to break the air and slow his ever swift demise. The nausea crept into his chest like a silence beast as the golden brown eyes searched for any sign of movements as the broken posture of the doctor stumbled towards the lifeless figure before him. There were no words to describe the broken look on his face, and yet how beautiful he looked surrounded by the crimson pool of life that made his pale complexion all the more ghost like. Those blue eyes staring into his soul as the light that seemed hidden behind them slowly faded into the wind. Burning, ripping, his chest was on fire as he muttered words that he was pretty sure were not any language that humans could understand. Then it was darkness and the swift punch of reality that caused the doctor to scream out and scramble himself up in the sheets of his cot. His heart was racing like he had been running a marathon. He stared at the wall ahead of him as he looked down at the bed below him and then down to his hands. His mind played a trick on him as he saw that beautiful red color dripping off his fingers and staining the sheets causing a startled scream to erupt from his lips as the ex-soldier threw from the cot and stumbled crashing to the ground below him as he looked at his hands once more. Normal…sighing the man leaned himself back against the bed.

Since the dreadful day of June 16th, it had been a rather constant method of waking. Panicked, labored breathing as the image of his best friend, his flat mate, and companion collided with the unforgiving cobblestone below him. It was all that he could do, running his fingers through his ash blond hair as he untwisted himself from the sheets and turned his eyes towards the red numbers on the digital clock beside him, 7:30. Looking towards the door of his bedroom the Doctor stood up and made the bed. He had an hour and thirty minutes before his shift at the surgery began. Sarah had given him his shifts back soon after he got cleared by his therapist to start working again. All the sessions in the world would never be able to clear the emptiness that lingered in his chest. The shower running over his aching posture was the closet to sweet relief that he could find these days. Since the fall…the fall…he had returned to his limp, and the pain in his shoulder was as ripe as the day he received the bullet and begged for his life. Reaching his good hand back he lightly massaged the scar tissue as he grinded his teeth begging for any relief he could get. Scrubbing away the pain as much as he could the doctor seemed to continue about his life.

Changing into a sweat and a pair of trousers the man stood awkwardly in front of the mirror his cane in his fingers. Looking at his face, he looked older, tired, and like a shell of the man he was. Staring into his own eyes he nodded his head in a salute fashion as he walked out of his room and down the stairs to the main level. It might have been close to a year since Sherlock faded from 221B Baker St. but John hadn't changed anything. The microscope was still on the kitchen table where Sherlock had left it. The only thing that changed was instead of a head in the fridge with various appendages and limbs in the draws Mrs. Hudson had cleaned it out and replaced it with Milk, and various foods. Sherlock's room remained the same. Despite Mrs. Hudson's suggestion that John moved downstairs for the sake of his leg, in his heart he knew that Sherlock was coming back to him. Walking about the kitchen the ghosts of the past danced around him as the faded smells of his companion tickled his nose. The innocent touches here and there, the distant feeling of lips against his neck and the top of his head as he poured himself a cup of coffee. He remembered the sound of the violin when Sherlock was thinking, and the almost compulsive need for a case that was expressed in random acts about the living room.

The faded feeling of those long musician fingers against his cheek greeted him as he turned on his heels and moved towards the kitchen table with his coffee caused goose flesh a slight shiver. Resting his cane against the chair beside him he sipped his bitter coffee that seemed to match perfectly with the bitter taste in his mouth. What if he had stayed and realized that it was all a ploy to get Sherlock alone with that monster. What if…His mind was haunted by that phrase every single day and it only seemed to get worse as the days moved. Staring across the table he remembered the genius who used to take that seat across from him. He remembered the scent of the overly sweet coffee and the news paper blocking the view of those blue eyes but occasionally they would meet and he remembered the chill that slipped down his body as one of Sherlock's feet would lightly brush his. He felt the twist in his stomach, finishing his coffee he looked down at his cell phone and scrolled through his list on contacts. Floating over Sherlock's name he pressed the send button. It didn't ring, it never rang just went directly to voicemail. "This is Sherlock Holmes Mobile Device…I am not available so if you have an intelligence request please your message." And as the beep sounded John hung up. He did that every morning since the accident. He knew Sherlock's phone was probably in a lock box somewhere, but he waited for the day when the Detective would answer.

Today was another let down. Tucking his mobile phone into his pocket John stood, his eyes looking around the room that screamed with memories of Sherlock. Watching as his ghost would stand in the corner playing his violin. John walked past the ghost as he closed the window as he walked through Sherlock's image. Pulling the blinds he shoved his feet in his loafers and grabbed his shoulder bag. Walking down the stairs his said his good mornings to Mrs. Hudson before he walked out of the door of the flat. Looking up at the blue but cloudy English sky he watched as the world spun around him, time didn't stop for anyone not even the notorious Sherlock Holmes, the thought drew a single phrase from his mind, "he would outlive god to get the last word". He wished he had been telling the truth. Calling a taxi John watched the world moving, cars driving passed like this void in his chest never existed. Life never made sense, it was all so small. As the cab pulled to a stop outside of St. Barth walking inside he headed towards the surgery. There was the quiet chatter and soon the light bump on his shoulder as Molly lightly brushed him.

"O-Oh! Hello John. You're back in the office then?" Molly asked as the girl tried to balance too many folders at once. They both had been doing their best to bury their heads in work since the events of June 16th. Lestrade, Molly, and he had all made a silent agreement to not talk about those events.

"Hello, yes I started last week. Finally got cleared." John said as he took some of the files from her fingers. He carried them towards the morgue shooting the wind with their conversations. Skirting around the real issue and the real question until John finally placed down the files and touched Molly lightly on the shoulder, "I am fine. How are you?" John asked placing his hands on her shoulders and watched as her face seemed to twist and she wrapped her arms around his neck. He let her sob there for a minute as he looked around the empty morgue. He looked at the table where he could still see Sherlock looking at experiments like a ghost commanding John to look through the slides. He felt Molly pull away and Sherlock disappeared as he turned his eyes back to the Molly as she whipped her eyes.

"Thank you John…I am fine too." There was a thankful smile on her lips as she turned back to her work and John nodded his head with his usual stoic expression. Moving up the surgery the day continued as it usually did, he counted down the hours until he was down at the bar with Lestrade talking about the new cases that were popping up and offering to have him on board for old time sake but in the end John always turned him down. There was no point in a case without Sherlock. So the day continued as it usually did, three young girls with the sign of a cold, a woman in a pregnancy check up, a boy who shoved small army men up his nose, and an older woman with a weird rash on her arm. Finishing his cases he signed them off, wrote the medications that they needed, and finally put everything were it needed to go. Mundane, boring, typical was Sherlock would have described his life as of right now. It was terribly, horribly human and after his years serving. Deep in his heart he knew after the war zone he saw he'd never be able return to normal, London was a puzzle waiting to be cracked and his only key had been taken from him by Jim Moriarty on the roof of the building he worked in. He remembered the Police finding the man's body and the ceremony. Shaking his head the doctor removed himself from the visions that haunted him; never would he have thought that this man could control his entire life.

The walk from the Surgery to the pub was a blur just like it was almost every night. Looking around seeing various familiar faces from the bureau it was just another normal night. Ordering a pint he took a seat beside inspector Lestrade. The man looked worse for wear, John didn't know whether it was the hours at the police station, or the cases were just piling because they didn't have Sherlock's helpful hand…Or was it more personal? "Sherlock would know…He'd look at something on his face, and the style of his clothes and be able to deduction everything…" John thought to himself as he sipped the pint, "How are things at the station?" he asked as the soothing tip of alcohol slid down his throat and settled in his stomach. An alcohol coma was the only thing that could wipe his mind free of that smug face and those stunning blue eyes.

"Same as usual, Anderson is a pain in the arse, and Donovan well...She is still Donovan." Lestrade said as a tired look came to his face, "Weird isn't it…how things just keep on going." As the golden ale faded from the cup and John couldn't speak. Simply nodding his head his mind was lost were it shouldn't be. He listened as Lestrade dumped on him his mind getting lost in the mindless blabber of the man beside him. He listened to the wife issues, as the two middle age men slowly drowned their sorrows in stout. Life would keep moving.

Several more months passed and Sherlock was finally starting to feel like a story that he was telling on his blog. John stilled lived in 221B Baker Street and had finally started feeling other people for the first time. He still kept his same routine and listened to Sherlock's voice mail every morning to keep the male's voice fresh in his head. He didn't want his brain forgetting anything about the detective but there was little left for him to cling to. The scent of Sherlock had faded from the sheets of his bed; his coat has lost its scent. He had finally moved the stuff off the table and placed shoved it all in the side cabinet that was never used. Today was June 16th 2011, exactly a year after Sherlock had passed. John had run out and brought flowers before work and him and Mrs. Hudson had agreed to visit his grave today and clean it up as needed. John knew Mycroft would keep it, but there was no harm in another loving touch. Grabbing his phone, for the first time since the man had passed he hadn't called the man's cell that morning. His mind was too occupied with making sure they had enough time to visit before he was late for his lunch shift at the surgery.

"Come along Mrs. Hudson!" Watson called to the older women as she called back.

"I am coming dear! I just wanted to make some biscuits for Sherlock…He did always love my biscuits." The fragile figure was dressed in her best dress as she linked arms with John and they moved out of 221B and John hails a taxi.

When they finally arrived at the grave the two of them walked past the graves looking at all the names but in reality they were looking for the only grave that mattered. John had memorized the path that led to the black marble with the name: SHERLOCK HOLMES written simply in silver text. He remembered the oak tree like he had visited there yesterday when in reality the last time he walked this path was the day of the funeral. When they reached the grave looking down Mycroft had already visited from the orchids placed down on the stone base of the black perfectly shined marble. Mrs. Hudson placed down the basket with the biscuits and tears came to her eyes as she said a soft Hello. She spoke to him for a while ranting about how she missed having his experiments in the fridge. She cleared her throat leaving John and Sherlock alone. Awkwardly the solider tucked his hands in his pockets, "Hey Sherlock…I visited Molly the other day she is doing fine…We all miss you. Lestrade is all backed up at the station from all the cases. He wishes that you were there, I think ever Anderson and Donovan miss you too…" He muttered as he looked painfully down at the grave, "The apartment doesn't smell like you anymore. It's weird, for once we have actual food in the fridge and not your experiments." There was a weak smile that came to his lips. "I am not good with this…empty talking thing." He said softly as he reached his hand out and ran his fingers along the smooth stone.

"I miss you Sherlock Holmes…And I am just waiting for you to come back." John said as he reached into his pocket and looked over his outgoing calls. Hitting the send button as the man hung his head slightly; he felt the tears welling up in his chest. Clearing his throat he nodded his head as he brought the mobile to his ear and waited for the sound of the voice mail. His eyes narrowed though, Ring…..Ring…..Why was it ringing? Never in the 360 days that Dr. John Watson had called Sherlock did that phone ring. Ring…Ring….And then there was a click.

The click seemed to last for hours when in the reality if the less then seconds before something reached his ears, "Hello John." Feeling his heart snap Watson felt his knees caving as that dark voice seemed to rip him to pieces with those two works.

"Sherlock…"John said softly as he stared at the marble ahead of him. Tensing as he felt a hand slip onto his shoulder his eyes narrowed.

"Did you miss me?" Sherlock asked as he stood behind the doctor staring down at him.

"Sherlock Holmes, I am going to kill you. You idiot!" John snapped as he slammed his phone shut and turned around wrapping his arms around the dark figure behind him.

"I missed you too. Next time I will answer promptly."


End file.
